The Disaster at Mot
Header: Imperium-victorus parade celebrating final liberation, Mot-Primus
Death Worship by Ivan Espinoza. Used with artist's permission.
Chapter 5: Variation of Tactics
“Remember your training, and you will ensure the enemy does not make it out alive!” - Ashur’s Katogaur had to shout to be heard over the bumps and jolts rocking their lander, as it hurtled towards the surface. Some resulting from atmospheric turbulence, most from fighter craft and anti-aircraft batteries’ exploding ordnance filling the air around them with shot and shell. This was far from Ashur Pactsman’s first combat landing in the Mot tour; but this was the first time they were doing so without clear aerial superiority, and wherein it was relatively inexperienced troops like those of the 16th going in as first wave. They were vulnerable, and the prospect of an inglorious death far above the real battle genuinely scared Ashur and many of his conphiliates.
Fortunately, the 16th Philia’s Katogaur was a veteran of many campaigns, having just pacified the Puratem Belt before taking command of the 16th in the Mot theatre. As such he was making sure to keep the men’s minds on their mission, and even looking the other way when some of them violated the new High Demigaur’s command by praying to steady their nerves. It had been strange when the Centurion had issued the order that religious observances were to be banned — coming so soon after the bruising defeat in the void battle that had lost them orbital control, it was a hard pill to swallow. But chat in the bunk supposed it stamped a difference in command style from pious old Gal-Uru, which was fair enough. After all, even if Gal-Uru had been a popular commander, Centurion Izdubar had won his position in combat fair and square, so clearly it was right that as the Mightiest he should command. Still, old habits died hard; when Ashur had joined a conphiliate in whispering the Ichorian litany, the Katogaur had caught his eye yet said nothing.
Such ad-hoc indulgences were not enough to stifle all anger, of course. Nor were they universal. In the days before departing on this mission. Ashur had heard repeated talk of sporadic acts of insubordination breaking out in other Philia, when their respective Katogaurs had gone round gathering up and confiscating icons to dispose of. Barrack room talk even had it that Lugal Damogaur had had a fist fight with his Sirdar, after the latter refused a direct order to stop invoking the name of the Blesséd And Most Glorified First Archon before taking a shot. Ashur Pactsman actually knew Kutû personally from before they had both been recruited, and doubted his friend would strike a superior officer, dismissing soldier’s gossip for the nonsense it was. But, at the least, that such talk was spreading was a sign that all was not well among the Sherden.
Still, nothing succeeds like success. Even amidst all this, many had certainly been brought round to the Centurion’s more secular approach by the string of victories that had followed the series of aggressive pushes he’d ordered along multiple fronts. And the enthusiasm was, almost literally, infectious. Men returning from the front, still feeling combat’s exulted high, now went straight from action to mingling with troops in ships’ rec-rooms rather than to prayer. Indeed, immediately before loading on to their combat lander, the 16th had been hearing stories from the recently returned 13th. They were enthused, they spoke of feeling strength like never before, the blood god’s wrath flowing through them and making them powerful, mighty; a rage so pure it almost sufficed to burn away the weak-minded loyalists by mental force alone. It had worked many of 16th Philia into near-rapturous empathetic rage, and they had had to be physically shoved into their assigned seating. Even as the air exploded around them and the lander took another sharp jolt, many of them were clearly still feeling this, some of them loudly declaring (for the Blood God’s benefit, apparently; or at the least with no obvious mortal audience in mind) their marital prowess, their intent to slaughter, their joy at the prospect of bloodshed to come.
With a thud the lander slammed into the planet’s surface. Two men actually went flying, one of them knocked unconscious when his head struck the ship’s wall. The idiots had been among the most enthusiastic moments ago, and in their eager haste had forgot to properly secure themselves when adopting fight-ready stances.
The Katogaur took his sword and angrily slashed the dazed-but-conscious Pactsman; “I said remember your bloody training! Ramps down in 5; you know your jobs — secure the zone, prepare the way for the logisticals inbound. Alright, ramps down; let’s get some!”
This, at least, went exactly as planned. Even having lost multiple landers in the descent, the Sherden still sufficed to overwhelm Mot’s PDF once they were planetside. Ashur Pactsman had taken particular joy in the final bayonet charge that had broke the last line of defence before breaking into the landing-port proper. The loyalist soldiers had been well positioned and exhibited admirable fire-discipline; clearly the Holy Judges had been training their officers to a much higher calibre in recent months. But, before even arriving many of the 16th had been hyped up on Khornite wrath, and their enthusiasm combined with the commencement of earnest battle had driven the rest to feats of martial strength that by all rights should have been impossible. They had simply run through the fire, shrugging off wounds that should have been fatal, and fallen upon the disbelieving loyalists as a red tide cresting upon a cliff side, showing them in vigorous practice why Khorne’s way was to be preferred.
She led a counter-attack retaking the spaceport.
Sigrún the Captain by StoryKillinger.
(He's given general permission to repost his art.)
But, the landing port secured, the mission took a strange turn. Their Katogaur, limping slightly from where the PdF commander had managed to knick his thigh with a dagger, had vox’d in that the landing pads were secure and the logistical ships could arrive. But he had been outraged to be told in reply that the expected supply ships would not be landing, that the slaves involved in loading and organising the ships had been slaughtered en masse when one of them looked at the 13th sirdar in a disrespectful manner. And, in the time it would take to find replacements, command anticipated the Qodeshi Sufetim would be able to retake the landing site. So 16th were instead to destroy any infrastructure that could not be looted then move to join partisans in the Murub foothills, leaving only a token force behind to cover their retreat. With the mood these new orders put them in, it was at least easy to persuade the 16th to wreck the place.
Three weeks later, Izdubar was seething as a trembling slave took up the data slate and continued reading the report. This was the third such to take up the task of reading it to him, the previous two having been cut down when getting to a point that particularly enraged the Centurion. Why must these worthless little wretches die so easily, didn’t they appreciate that he was a busy man and did not have time for having to find replacements so frequently? The demons within him (Izdubar was not sure if that was metaphorical; he hoped so) whispered that they did it deliberately, that they wanted to provoke him, martyr themselves all just for the sake of trying to make him read it himself in front of the gathered war council, to make him look weak and ignorant. He growled, eliciting an audible whimper from the slave.
“Ah… an… and so, m-my lord, Lugar’s last report indicates that… that…”
“What are you waiting for, whelp? Tell me how my war goes!”
“My lord! Please! Know that I merely report events, I cause them not!”
Izdubar drew his pistol and had it aimed at the man’s head before he babbled anymore.
“You think I am stupid? You presume to tell me what I can and cannot know?”
The slave simply wailed at this, debasing himself, prostrate on the floor and begging for mercy. Rolling his eyes, but not actually withdrawing his pistol, Izdubar wearily responded:
“Yes yes, now continue your report.”
“Thank you… oh thank you, my lord. Lugar reports that his attack was repulsed, that they were not able to break the line at Ālu; the air-defence cannons thus remain in enemy ha—”
The slave was cut off by Izdubar’s harsh bark:
“I know full well what that weakling’s failure entails! Have him report to me immediately, that he may answer for his failure in personal combat! In the mean time, this set back can be overcome, as 16th Philia should have re-secured the munitions dump in Murub — once we detonate that, we will not need heavy armour to breach their lines.”
The slave was, by this point, having difficulty actually formulating sentences. They began:
“Lug… Lu, L’L’…”
Izdubar was cocking his pistol when Išātu Sirdar stepped in:
“My lord, Lugar slipped into a coma shortly after compiling his after-action report; and 16th Philia’s Katogaur voxed in that they lack both the ammunition and manpower to make the attack, and are withdrawing to an extraction point. His full message actually featured a detailed data-package listing all the curses he put upon your name, if you want I can have the slave rea—”
Izdubar simply roared, then turned his pistol upon the slaves fulfilling various attendant duties within the room — all besides the slave holding the data slate. When the echoes of gunshots had stopped reverberating, and the panicked screams of the now-dead were replaced with the soft moans of those who had been merely injured, Izdubar could be heard panting for a moment as he struggled to compose himself. He looked meaningfully at the remaining slave, and then to his command staff, clearly expecting them to see and appreciate his prudence in keeping the one useful slave alive despite his quite justifiable rage.
Through clenched teeth (and a now partially augmetic jaw) the Centurion just about managed to articulate himself.
“That. Was. A. Direct. Order! A direct order! How dare he ignore my order!? I’m surrounded by treasonous incompetents! I should’ve liquidated all of you along with that mewling cur, Gal-Uru!”
At the mention of his former commandant’s name Išātu tensed, and found within himself the courage to speak, or at least the sacred wrath of Khorne sufficient to overcome any reservations or thought to self-preservation:
“My lord, I cannot allow you to say such things of our warriors! The High Demigaur was a great man, and loyal servant of Khorne! He led the Sanguinary Utnapishtim to many victorie—”
“He was a worthless simpleton and it’s his fault we are in this mess!”, Izdubar raged in response.
Time was the Centurion would have simply killed Išātu for talking to him like that, but by this point he had grown used to it. One of his better command decisions, if he did say so himself, was banning the time-wasting superstitious mumblings these mortal idiots indulged themselves with after battle. Presumably to avoid facing the next fight, cowards that they were one and all. Some of the more pious had objected; but, after he and the Qarnu Anšar had put down Kutû Sirdar’s pathetic little attempt at mutiny, discipline had been restored. And victory was Izdubar’s vindication! For, despite the loss in the void suffered shortly after Gal-Uru’s death (no doubt because that moron had left the fleet out of position, Izdubar often told himself) for the next fortnight they had won victory after victory on the field. Freed of their fetters, the men - inspired by his Mighty prowess and leadership, Izdubar was sure - fought harder than ever before.
But then something had started going wrong. Insubordination among the ranks became rampant. He was losing his officers to petty honour duels (as if these mortals had any honour that might be worth preserving!) at a rate they could not replenish. His troops would make insane bayonet charges, the orders behind which could not be discerned, that served no tactical or strategic purpose. Wasting themselves utterly yet seemingly delighted at their own blood being spilled. Even when they won on the field, they would sometimes descend into a post victory brawl that would reduce their combat effectiveness for days afterwards, in one case even having their victory reversed as the Mot PdF launched a successful counter-attack while the Sherden were distracted.
Against this background, Išātu’s little outburst seemed positively restrained. Izdubar paid it no mind. He turned again to the remaining slave:
“Get out of my sight! Go find someone to clean up this mess, too.”
As Izdubar spoke he gestured sharply at the corpses and maimed lying about the Naramutu’s briefing room. The slave, hunched over and scurrying away, did not notice the gesture, and was confident (quite accurately, as it turned out) that Izdubar would not remember issuing whatever order he just had in any case.
“The rest of you, too. Leave me. I will need time to think if I am to rescue this war from your treacherous failures.” Išātu sirdar, tersely made the sign of the Mighty before turning sharply on his heels and leading the other mortal officers out. Izdubar remained, alone.
Roughly contemporaneously with this, far off on distant Uruk, (more exact temporal specification being impossible without an advanced course in relativistic warp mechanics) Logistician Dubsar frowned and paused in his calculations. This could not be right, this completely conflicted with previous projections! Dubsar was a Wardum, a slave in the Sanguinary Utnapishtim’s legal system, with the complete lack of rights this entailed. But he was an exulted slave, as these things went. His skill at logistical calculation made him important to the Empire’s war effort, and his Treatise On The Proper Accounting of MPM in Void Warfare (a young man’s work now far behind him, somewhat rash yet all the more vivid for its boldness) still informed fleet level deployment to this day. Which all meant that he probably would not be killed outright for any calculation error; but there could be no guarantee he would not be publicly whipped for wasting the Etogaur’s time.
So he double checked, and tripled checked again. He had his own attendants call up the records of previous communiques from the front, and finally he went to speak with the master astropath of Urukite High Command, to ensure messages were not being confused. All pointed to one inevitable conclusion — the MPM ratio of the Mot campaign had become drastically worse, and the expense in resources necessary to take the astropathic relay centres that had formed the rationale for the campaign in the first place were now better spent elsewhere. Dubsar was not in a position to say how such a disastrous reversal could have occurred, but he was not given his rations (indeed, not permitted) to think about such things. He simply compiled his report, and went personally to deliver it to his overseer.
Four days later, Naramutu ship time, orders were received from Gilgen Etogaur himself. Logisticians on Uruk had calculated that resources committed to the Mot campaign were by this point wasted, and a higher MPM ratio could be achieved by redeploying all available forces to the Enlil front. This had, of course, enraged Izdubar - he had been deliberately falsifying information to the mortal command structure to prevent just this very scenario. Another treachery! Who did this to him!?
He did not have to wait long to find out. A recording was soon broadcast from the Aradanzû, which had broke out of formation and entered the warp just as the message was sent. Some absurd little woman (who Izdubar had a vague sense of recognising, though in the end mortals all looked the same to him) calling herself Tammuz Sirdar issued a stinging condemnation of Izdubar, saying that he had brought about Khorne’s disfavour by banning the religious observances of the Church of the Burning Massacre. She boasted of informing Uruk, and (wielding Gal-Uru’s sword above her head as she did so) announced that loyal warriors of the true High Demigaur were accompanying her to fight a more righteous war for Enlil, per the Etogaur’s command. She sheathed her sword, made the sign of the mighty, and said “May we all be worthy of joining Gal-Uru in the battle aeternal” before signing off.
It turned out that with her were a substantial portion of what remained of his forces on Mot; she had managed to extract them from the surface in what was by all accounts a daring withdrawal operation. The Death Brigade of 7th Philia, the entirety of 16th Philia, the guerrilla forces who had still been operating around Mot-Secundus, all but three of the remaining Gore Mages, and the entire remnant of the lay brethren of the Church of the Burning Massacre were in the Aradanzû’s hold as it departed. The war for Mot was over, and on some level even the Centurion knew it.
This would not necessarily have stopped Izdubar from fighting on anyway. The Qarnu Anšar were a mighty warband, and so far even the Holy Judges had proven unable to seriously match them in combat. Ever since they had lost void superiority, deploying further troops to Mot, or re-deploying what was there, had been incredibly difficult. They were always having to make darting attacks, in and out just long enough to launch drop ships before retreating. But even with the loss of the Aradanzû they probably had the capacity to punch through the void defences just enough for one last mass assault on Mot-Primus, the siege lines around which were their surface-side last zone of control. It was unlikely, but possible, that a last wild swing of the axe might decapitate the foe.
But Tammuz’s last cruel taunt sufficed to bring Izdubar to heel. She had ended her recorded message by saying that she would swear vengeance upon Izdubar, but she doubted it was necessary. Word was that his own lieutenant, Ša Piṭrim, would personally execute Izdubar and take control of the Qarnu Anšar in short order in any case.
(This was in fact completely false, but it was not difficult to work out how to goad Izdubar.)
This could not be tolerated. The insolence! The outrage! His men would never do that to him, would they? Surely not. Obviously not. It had to be a lie, Ša Piṭrim was loyal. He needed him! Ša Piṭrim needed Izdubar, that is. Clearly. No. No, it would not stand. It could not stand! Izdubar would find whoever was spreading these malicious lies and kill them. Slowly. Surely the Qarnu Anšar knew this was false, did they not? They must do, they would never believe such obvious lies. Obvious lies!
That evening, ship time, the Centurion cut off the hand of one of his own chosen, sure that the raised fist had been the first sign of a strike rather than a greeting. The enraged berserker naturally leaped immediately into combat, his bloody stump pummelling Izdubar; he had to be put down with a well timed axe-butt to the dome. This experience, combined with Tammuz’ claim still running through his head, settled the matter. Izdubar would have to go back and ensure such defiance was not spreading among his own warband. This was probably only what cowardly enemies, whispering in the shadows (often even when he was alone in a room, though how they managed that he did not understand), wished him to believe. Still, it would not hurt to check.
So it was that the next day the remaining fleet was ordered to depart Mot’s system, back to the Sanguinary Utnapishtim for resupply before redeployment. Izdubar was in one of his more lucid moods, overseeing fine details of the withdrawal. Losses across the campaign had been minimal for the Qarnu Anšar, at least. Indeed, setting injuries aside, the Khornite Astartes had only actually permanently lost one of their number. And this had not even been by the hand of the Imperium!
The Centurion bitterly recalled how Kutû Sirdar had incapacitated a charging Qarnu Anšar with a point blank canon shot, and then self-detonated his own tank while the marine lay bleeding on the floor; ending his rebellion with a dishonourable murder-suicide, incinerating the warrior’s precious genesead.
But rather than stopping Izdubar, this had only inspired him to seek out a source of replacement. So, the very next day after that, he had led an assault on a Qodeshi patrol ship. In fact, this boarding action had been the last true victory of the campaign. They had rampaged through the ship, and in so doing they had secured a small cache of geneseed from the Qodeshi. The Holy Judges were physically very strong, larger and stronger than any loyalist Astartes the Centurion or his men could remember ever having faced before. And their superior tactical ability, and morale boosting executions of failures, had certainly shored up Mot's PDF. But one on one, facing off against the Qarnu Anšar, their inexperience showed through. They were tough, a challenge. Some of his warriors had been seriously damaged, losing entire limbs in more than one case. But the loyalists consistently lost those fights, and the Qarnu Anšar had managed to avoid offering the Judges any fights they would win in return. Izduar enoyed fighting the Qodeshi.
Despite the sincere enjoyment remembering these skirmishes gave him, and while Centurion Izdubar lacked the introspective capacity to properly identify as much, there was a melancholic character to these reflections. Sweeping through the Qodeshi ship, cutting down their serfs with ease before besting their champions in close quarters combat; he was good at that. Immersed in that he felt something… something other than rage, and humiliation, and regret. But those moments were fleeting, and eventually he had to come back to himself. Come back to here, to now.
Izdubar sat in the High Demigaur’s command throne, the position he had gloriously won through his Might at arms, miserably overseeing a retreat.
Still, Izdubar convinced - reminded - himself, the campaign had been quite glorious. A victory, even, for the Qarnu Anšar, when one thought about it - and was that not what really mattered? Of course the mortals would not understand, with their lack of genehanced cognitive capacity, they could not. Gilgen Etogaur probably thought that Izdubar accepted the analysis of the mortal’s logisticians, that he agreed the Mot campaign was a defeat and was redeploying as ordered. But Izdubar knew better, he understood, he saw that the campaign at Mot - the triumph at Mot! - had pleased the blood god, by so enriching the mighty Qarnu Anšar with further geneseed. The fact that Gal-Uru’s failures, along with the weakness of the mortals he was forced to work with, obscured that triumph — none of this was any concern to the Centurion. He barely felt anything at all as the Naramutu made translation into warp, leaving Mot behind forever.
On Mot’s surface the few remaining Sherden officers underwent the ritual of retreat. Their last Goremage went round their billets with a logistician in trail. Those whose MPM ratio had been unworthy were bled out. Their spilled vitae would be used to pay the sacrificial price, transforming the rest into Blood Wolves to be set loose upon the enemy. These lucky few would have but short a spell in the material plane; their bodies would soon give out. But for one last time they would swell the banks of Khorne’s mighty river with the blood of their foes. Then, their mortal shells spent, they would go on to the battle aeternal, where eventually their skulls too would be placed at the base of the Throne; their hollowed out eyes ever watching sanguine waters run by.
Khornite Terminator by Ivan Espinoza. Used with artist's permission.